In the Shadow of Shakespeare (22 page)

“I
know naught what is wrong with her.  She usually sleeps ‘til Mare
returns.”

Alice
placed the bread and water on the table.  “You go ahead and eat. 
Give the baby to me.”  She held out her arms, and Anne gratefully handed
over the baby.  She fell on the bread like a hungry animal, quickly
gulping and stuffing as fast as she could. 

“Go
slow, you’re going to get sick.”

Anne
nodded, stopped, then took a drink from the jug.  Panting, she let the
water dribble down her chin.  Her eyes shone her thanks.  “Grammercy
Lady.  I ha’ not eaten…it seems like days.”

“Doesn’t
Mare feed you?”

“Aye. 
She does.  As well as she can.  She has made little change as of
late.  More and more whores come to town, she says.”

The
baby continued to wail, and Alice knew by the sound of her cries that she was
hungry.  She stuck her finger in Mary’s mouth and she sucked hungrily,
screaming when she discovered there was no milk.

“I
better get Mare.  I don’t think there is much choice in the
matter.”    She gave Mary back to the reluctant Anne. 

“I’ll
hurry as fast as I can.”

Chapter 28

She
looked up and down the road hoping to see Aaron.  He was long gone. 
Few people wandered the street at this hour, and the ones that did – madmen,
whores, and drunks, kept to themselves in little groupings.

The
street widened at the crossroads, and she looked to the left.  She knew
she must make her way towards the London Bridge, but she was confused on which
way to go.  She knew the bridge lay somewhere to the south, but it was
dark and hard to get her bearings. 

A
man dressed in rags approached from her left, and she thought to ask him
directions.

 “Booged
lone tame ‘ha da row!”  He laughed and stumbled past her.

Alice
realized he was drunk or mad, or both.  She wondered how far Bedlam, the
insane asylum, was from here, trying to will the old map of Elizabethan England
in her head.  She realized there was no one in authority to turn to if she
needed help – no policemen, no ambulance…no nothing.  There were only
these people, the common people, wandering the streets that she could turn to
for help.  

She
continued down the road and soon heard the sound of laughter. A stone building
with a sign which read
The Boars Head
stood before her. Shutters had been thrown back and light spilled
from the windows.  A man approached carrying a mandolin.  He had a
red kerchief on his head and was wearing a white shirt. The man entered the
tavern. 

 “Play,
Michel!  Play!”  The sound of fresh laughter erupted and then the
sound of string instruments playing a popular ballad.  Voices began to
sing along.

Alice
tentatively pushed the heavy door open to the pungent smell of ale and
tobacco.  There was a small crowd gathered around two musicians.  A
few people looked over when she entered, then went back to conversing with
their companions.  In the corner, a bald man was smoking a pipe, merrily
eyeing the musicians and tapping his foot to the music.  Alice approached
him.

 “Sir,
how do I get to the Mermaid?”

 “Sir?” 
He looked up, surprised.  “I ha’ naught been called ‘Sir’ not once in my
short life!”  He pulled her close.  “Stay. Stay awhile.  I’ll
bring ye a pint o’ale.”  He looked at her beseechingly. 

 “I
must get there…to the Mermaid.”  She gently pried his arm off her
waist.  “If you would be so kind…”

“You. 
Mark that!  She calls me ‘you’ too.  Like a gentleman!”  He
stood up and swayed, joining the crowd clustered around the musicians, singing
a little ditty:  “You too, and you.  Shall be a good gentleman
new.”  He collapsed in a chair, and then rolled off, hitting the ground
with a thump.  Alice was reminded of a large sack of flour. 

She
wondered if anyone was sober.  A woman who had been watching the scene
unfold between her and the pipe smoker approached.

 “I
heard ye would be lookin’ for the Mermaid.” 

 “Yes. 
Do you know where it is?” 

 “Aye. 
Go from here, straight.  There shall be another Tavern.  Listen for
the Thames, and look for the torches.”  She nodded, and walked away.

Alice
looked after her, wondering if anyone could possible be more obtuse.  She
pushed the wooden door open and walked out onto the street. 

The
street gave way to another and she turned, hoping she was heading south. 
Continuing along she smelled a putrid odor.  It was rank and old, like an
old urinal.  An outhouse smell. 
Maybe it’s a ditch leading to the
river…
The London Bridge came into view.  And sure enough, she saw the
torches. 

Relieved,
she knew she was on the right track.  As she approached, she heard the
sound of moaning.  There on spikes in front of the bridge was the horror
she had only read about. 

A
head was stuck on a spike.  Drawn by repulsion and terror, she could not
help but look.  The lifeless eyes bulged, glassy, and its tongue, stiff,
protruded from the mouth.  A woman stood in front of the head,
sobbing.  Horrified, Alice wanted to comfort her but could not.  Her
stiff legs carried her past the scene. 

She
made her mind blank and thought of nothing and the moaning and sobbing finally
receded into the distance.  She crossed the bridge with a sigh of relief,
only to realize she had to walk it again to get back to Mare’s dwelling. 
Stopping, she looked back, watching the flicker of the torches that signified
death and the crossing.  The dark water gurgled under the bridge and she
thought of the river Styx and its quiet and robed boatman, who merely asked
that you paid your way before he ferried you across to the other side. 

Alice
continued on, realizing the Mermaid was not much further.  Her feet began
to ache. 
I need a good pair of tennis shoes if I’m going to be walking
round this place…And a horse…
Her toes were numb as she approached the
tavern.  Larger than the Boars Head, the tavern greeted her arrival with a
wooden sign painted with a portrait of a blue mermaid.  Raucous laughter
erupted from inside.  She pushed the door open to be met by a cloud of
tobacco smoke, and something sweeter that she faintly recognized from another
time. 
Marijuana! 
Incredulous, Alice looked around.  It
could be any one, there were many people smoking pipes.   She
remembered that it was Sir Walter Raleigh who had first brought tobacco over to
England from the Indians.  Could the Native Americans also have given him
marijuana? 

Her
eyes scanned the crowd and quickly fell on Mare.   She had her arm
entwined within a man’s beefier one.  He was a smallish man dressed in the
rough wear of a sailor – cutoff pants below the knee and an old worn
shirt.  Alice moved towards them.

 “Sailed
with the navy I did.  Until something finer came along in the West
Indies.”  He winked at Mare. “Come sweet, I’ll pay you a pretty pence or
two.” 

Mare
smiled, and looking up caught Alice’s eye. 

 “Alice! 
Come, come!  I ha’ been waiting for ye.”  She looked to the
sailor.  “See?  Just as I told ye.  She’s a lovely girl, is’t
she not?” 

The
sailor critically appraised her.  His eyes narrowed, and he motioned to a
man sitting at a nearby table.  A candle flickered on the table throwing
light on the male occupant.  Alice realized that this was the man who was
smoking the marijuana.  He sat with a pipe and stared at her with dead
eyes.  He took a puff off his pipe and then a swig of ale. 

 “What
say ye man?” The smallish man inquired.

The
pipe smoker  nodded.   “Come to wench.”  He held out his
hand. 

When
she did not reciprocate her grabbed her and pulled her onto him.   He
smelled of stale urine and ale and laughed deeply and held her close. 
Alice recognized the bump of an erection underneath her; horrified, she tried
to get off the man’s lap. 

He
twisted her arm beneath her back.  “Ye will be goin’ nowhere but the bed
wench.”  Laughing, and still holding her arm behind her back, he pulled
her to her feet. 

Terrified,
she looked at Mare.  Sympathy flickered in Mare’s eyes. 

“John,
she’ll go willingly.  Let her be.”  Mare forced a laugh, and tried to
pull the sailor from Alice, who only shoved her away.  “Get ye gone,
whore.  I ha’ mine here.”

He
shoved her forward towards some stairs in the back of the tavern.  She
screamed, but few people even looked up from their ale.  Out of the corner
of her eye she caught a glimpse of Mare.  Her eyes were wide and her face
pale. 

A
man emerged from a back room.  Her eyes met his.  Brown eyes and
shoulder length hair. 

“Kit!”

A
flicker of recognition flit over his face.    

“Let
her be.” Christopher said.

Mare
began to laugh uproariously,  “Ah, there you are!,”  She stood beside
Alice and took the sailor’s hand from her arm.  “Prithee be sirs, this
wench ha’ been promised to the…ah, how shall I speak it? – the bawdy bawcock
that he be!”

“What?” 
Alice looked at her incredulously, knowing that the words roughly translated to
dirty pimp.

“Aye. 
The best…as bawcockery goes.  How now, Kit?  What say you?” 
Mare slipped her arm through Christopher’s.  The sailor narrowed his eyes
and tried to grab Alice.

Christopher
forced his arm down. “Pray tell, what have ye with my wench?  Care ye for
a tangle?”  He pulled his dagger from his side.  Surprised, the
sailor stepped back. 

“Get
ye gone.  All of ye.”  The sailor hesitated, then walked back to his
companion, mumbling something under his breath. 

The
companion looked incredulously at Mare, “What of mine?” 

“What
of it?” said Mare.  “Besides, ye paid me naught…And anyway, for the likes
of ye and yer fellow, I’ll have naught!”  She stuck her thumb in her mouth
and pulled it out, scraping the nail against her teeth. 

The
insulted man looked down at his ale, face red and ashamed, while his companion
stared dumbfounded.

Christopher
ran a hand through his hair, and nervously chuckled.  “Baseless
bate-breeders.  What say you, Mare? I shall have a wig and staff for you
yet for that performance.  Come to the stage?  It pays better than
whoring. ” 

“Tut,
tut.  Stop yer jests Kit, ye know as well as I that women cannot play upon
the stage.” 

“’Tis
a pity.  And what of the wench I paid for?  How now, wench?” He
looked at Alice.  “Dost thou have a name?”  He smiled warmly and
picking up her hand, lightly brushed his lips against it.

Electricity
ran up her arm and down her spine, but Alice tried to remain calm.  “Mare,
the baby is awake and screaming; she needs to be fed.”

Mare’s
eyes grew wide.  “Ah, I wish I had a wet-nurse!  How long has Mary
been awake Alice?”

She
shrugged.  “Over an hour.  Anne will be fit to be tied when you get
there I guess.”

Christopher
looked at her quizzically.  “Your speech…’tis strange.  Of where art
thou from?”

“I
am gone,” Mare gathered her shawl from the back of a chair.  “Alice, bring
home some change, will ye now?”  She shot her and Christopher a parting
glance and left the tavern. 

 ***

A
few stragglers sat next to drunken men, hoping to lift a coin or two when they
passed out.  Christopher sat next to Alice as a matter of protection, but
Alice suspected it was more of a matter of curiosity.  He became animated
when they began discussing the theatre, and his eyes grew large when she told
him she could read and write.

 “Hallo! 
A whore who cans’t read!  This I must see.” 

Taking
her hand, he led her to the room where he had emerged earlier.  A candle
flickered on a table, next to an inkpot with a quill.  Paper lay in front
of the inkpot.  He picked up the paper on the table.

“My
play,”  He held it out to her.  “Dost thou care to read?” 

She
held it, looking at the title.  “
The Jew of Malta
.”

“And
this?” 

She
picked up another paper he held out to her, “
Hamlet – The Prince of Denmark
?” 
Incredulous, she read the title again.  “How could this be?” 

 “Is
not that a good title?” 

 “It
is said that Shakespeare wrote it.”

His
face darkened.  “I cans’t assure ye Lady, that I, and my fellow, Thomas
Kyd, wrote this play.”  He grabbed the paper from her hand. 
“Shaksper is a cobbled country base...,”  He spluttered, …coming to London
to make his fortune, leaving a wife…”

 “An
actor?” 

 “Aye,
and barely.  He does naught work for Strange’s Men.  The theatre
company.  Ye know of it?” 

 “Well,
I – ”

 “Who
are ye lady?”  He stared at her.

Alice
knew then there was nothing to say to appease him.  And that he would
probably try to test her in some way.  He probably thought she was a spy.
Perhaps from the low countries.  A man snored in the corner.  He
garbled once and turned over.